Vienna Waits For You
by lorna surly
Summary: Forget small, sleepy towns named after cutlery...  this time, the gang's in the musical and artistic hub of Europe - Vienna, Austria.  Yes, there are vampires in this, but I promise no one's sparking like disco balls.  Rated M for language and lemons.
1. Chapter 1

**Everything belongs to S.M._  
><em>**

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><p><em>Some fucking pigeon flapped its wings in New York City, kicking up a whisper that became a breeze that became a gale that whipped its way across the ocean, fattening ripples into swells and rounding up rain clouds and scaring the living shit out of a few green yachtsmen before arriving, finally, with a big jolt in the port of Naples, Italy. <em>

_Left in its wake come morning: clean sidewalks, clear skies and surf crashing under the pier, all of it owing to a bird flitting about on the other side of the world. Or maybe it was one of those monarch butterflies wintering in Mexico, or a geisha girl who sneezed while putting on her foundation, or a flatulent Samoan guiding his skiff over the shallows. The point is big things-things as big as storms that turn Naples into Venice – start small. _

_I know a greater truth: that the seeming chaos of the small things is just a front. I know that, in fact, nothing comes by chance, that across-the-room smiles and flat tires and flight delays are never accidents. I know that my present — standing atop a castle wall, on top of the world, turning my eyes toward the big blue Mediterranean and smiling into the last of the wing-fired wind – is the endgame of my past, one long series of instants and moments strung together like beads. And I know that none of it was random. _

_Which means that all of it was part of a larger plan._

_Which leaves you feeling deeply indebted to some fucking pigeon._

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><p><strong>BPOV<strong>

Good Lord, is it hot! You'd never think some place as boring as Virginia could provide such a sweat-fest… but you'd be wrong. Somehow in my little corner of the world, we've abolished frivolous seasons like Spring and Fall. They're apparently unnecessary. The weather shifts from hot to cold so quickly that it often leaves me with whiplash. One week I'm clutching my backpack with shivering, white knuckles, braving the biting wind as best I can. The next week I'm digging my tank tops and shorts out of my trunk in the dank basement, silently pleading with God, Buddha, and Superman (or any other deity that might be listening) for my damn window unit to work.

A little breeze, that's all I ask. Perhaps that's too much.

I suppose it'd be easier to just carry the trunk up to my room and forgo the monotonous back and forth treks, but no matter how many times I try, I just can't keep my palms dry. There's no way in Heaven or Hell that I'd be able to lift the thing without blessed traction. I just took a shower half an hour ago and I'm already dripping sweat, mentally yearning for another.

How is it only June? How did that last bit of Junior year fly by so quickly? And where the hell was my nice, cool Spring?

At least I have a whole week to finish packing. I can't imagine trying to do this in haste – as if I'm not exhausted enough as it is from simply walking up stairs.

With a final load of summer clothes in hand, I make my last journey up the creaky basement steps, balancing my basket on my hip so that my free hand can reach the blinding pull-string light. The sudden loss of light and burning fibers in the bulb offer a brief relief from the heat and I amuse myself with the idea of being able to turn off the sun as easily.

Rose called about an hour ago saying she's all packed up and wondering when she could come over and help me. For the life of me, I can't figure out how she packed so quickly. She only started yesterday. She doesn't even pack light! The girl always packs way more than she'll ever need. Who in the hell goes for a semester abroad with a whole suitcase completely dedicated to shoes?

My best friend in the world, that's who.

My flop-flops echo down the long, dark hallway of my empty apartment, magnifying the cavernous expanse that I've become accustomed to. These huge brick Row Houses are a staple in historic Richmond. The large population and limited space have made long, narrow houses the norm. You'd be hard-pressed to find an apartment – or house for that matter – that wasn't this exact layout; one long, windowless hallway that runs the length of the house with all of the rooms on one side to accommodate the close quarters. I don't mind it too much though. My neighbors on both sides are coincidentally both elderly couples and I rarely see them. Noise isn't really an issue. I'm one of the lucky few.

I stop in the middle of the hall and fumble with the doorknob while trying not to drop my clothes. With a rough bump of the hip, the ancient wooden door gives way and finally allows me entrance. Shuffling my feet to feel for the hazardous piles of clothes on the floor, I finally make it to the bed and drop my basket… I've somehow missed the bed entirely though and the basket topples to the dusty wooden floor.

"Damnit!"

So much for packing clean clothes.

Still mumbling curses under my breath, I manage to rescue the last of my things and lay them out on my bed. My hands are already sweaty again.

Just before I'm about to sit down on my suitcase in a last ditch effort to close it, I hear the front door swing open with a mighty screech. If I ahdn't already known she'd be coming over, I'd be concerned. My neighborhood isn't known to be the absolute safest of places.

The clicking of heels that always accompanies my best friend resonates down the hall and slows in front of my door.

"Bells, you good?"

"Yeah Rose, I'm decent."

The door swings open to reveal my Rosalie, dressed in all of her stylish glory. Forget that it's sweltering outside, Rose has got on the tightest pair of jeans I've ever seen and a pair of fuck-me heels so high off the ground that they'd probably kill me should I ever become suicidal enough to attempt to walk in them.

"Really Rose? It's like a sauna today."

She smiles at me and shrugs. "Beauty is hard work, kiddo. But I do what I can. Besides, they make my ass look bangin'!" She grants me a little hip wiggle and a hearty laugh.

If I had any moisture left in my eyes, I'd roll them. But as it is, the air's already sucked me dry. I smile though and welcome her hug.

"Heaven forbid the men of Richmond see you in anything less than perfection."

She winks at me before walking over and flipping open the suitcase on my bed. She freezes for half a second and then turns to me with the most disbelieving look she's probably capable of.

"Really Bells? Your _whole_ library? I'm sure there's at least a HANDFUL of books hidden somewhere in Vienna that you can read."

I duck my head and have the decency to look embarrassed. She knows how I am and I truly doubt she's all that surprised.

"You ready to take a break? I'm starving." She pats he flat stomach with her expertly manicured hands and stretches.

I quietly nod and grab my purse off my desk before following her back down the hallway to her waiting car outside.

Rose is a solid, confident driver, leaning back in the bucket seat of her red 1989 BMW E30 IS and driving one-fisted instead of being all scrunched up against the wheel with her hands at ten and two. She grew up around her mechanic father and older brother – needless to say, she knows her way around a car. She spent most of her childhood in his shop as the official shop mascot and soaked up any and all information she could. When he died a couple years ago from a heart attack, she picked up where he left off, helping out after class when she could.

She turns the A/C dial on full blast and turns to me in her seat. "Are you ready to have some fun?" she asks, and that seals the deal-not the question itself, but the accent. It could be anything and is, in fact, most things: Australian layered over southern England with a dash of northern Wales and a thin coating of southern belle poured on top. I've always thought mutt accents are the best of all. There are always stories behind them.

But first, food.

"I haven't had a thing all day," she says, and because it's already two in the afternoon, and because she's supermodel thin (she makes that bucket seat of hers look like a La-Z-Boy) you make it a priority. There's a new place downtown that she says serves a mean tofu steak burrito, which it makes up for by being on the way to the river. So she puts on some Iron Maiden, heads east on Broad Street, and flips open her phone because she can't remember exactly where this place is.

"Can you please give me the number for Swingers?" she says. Only it comes out more like, "Can you please give me tha numbah for Swingahs?" and the operator on the other end of the satellite transmission doesn't know from oogily-doogily what Rose is going on about.

"Swingahs. I need the numbah for Swingahs. In Richmond, Virginia."

Nope. Still not catching it.

"Swingahs."

Sorry.

"Oh, for the love of…" Rose turns down the music and turns up the Yankee, retrieving the accent that got her through college.

"Suh-wing-rrrs," she says.

That does the trick. Rose makes her way smartly through traffic to a parking spot downtown, and then to a booth in an air-conditioned restaurant – the finish of a relatively short series of instants and moments, just a couple more beads on the string.

Still, as she disappears behind a large plastic menu that could easily pass for an interstate map, I can't help but smile at her. After everything that's happened in her life, Rose could always find the beauty in simplicity. She was my role model. I was learning though… my wounds were just much fresher than hers. I'd need more practice.

Rose's mom loved her dad, but they were young, and young love hardly ever lasts. Paul and Olivia had two children, first Dean, then Rose… and then Olivia was called away by her other loves. She was a back-up dancer to some Australian band that even I've never heard of, which lent her a kind of trivial fame as well as a prodigious drug habit. Olivia left the family when Rose was four years old, and she left the living before Rose was eight.

Her mom's death pushed her through what she calls "a very sad childhood," clinging to the hem of her dad's wandering spirit. From her birthplace in Sydney, Rose was shuffled off to Cambridge, to Norfolk, to storm-lashed Anglesey – an island in the Irish Sea where she bided her time by picking up Welsh (Daw haul ar fryn, babe!) – until, when she was fifteen, she was told to pack her bags once more, this time for good. The family was headed for America, the land of promise and fresh starts.

But Rose didn't see it that way, at least not at first. She hated the constant uprooting, but there are always reasons, just as there are always signs. Not a voice booming down from the heavens or a bright flash of light in the sky, but whispers that, looking back on it now, stand out like cymbal crashes in a silent cathedral.

Paul found a job quickly enough as a grease monkey at a Porsche shop and I found Rose. Both were matches made in Heaven. Paul became fast friends with his boss as well as a trusted confidant and protégé. I found a best friend that let me be me, the dorky, awkward, clumsy girl that I am. When I fell short, she held me up. When she started slipping, I was a willing shoulder to cry on.

Growing up, Rose found comfort in the limelight that her blossoming beauty and charm that was afforded her. I found mine in the endless world of literature (…and Star Wars). She found herself doing all the stupid things that really happen in acting school. She pretended to be tree, pretended to walk on eggshells, pretended she was her favorite animal. And then, when she was sixteen, she popped into an audition for a jeans commercial, where she was told to pretend she was hailing a cab while bending over to pick up some imaginary shopping bags and sticking her ass into the air.

There were a lot of girls like her there, blonde, busty and beautiful. Carbon copies of the ideal. But Rose had an edge, a small thing really: She can whistle like a good goddamn, not like an old fart on his front porch putting his knife to a length of hickory, but like someone whose life depends on hailing that cab. So there was that, and the fact that the architecture of her ass is the envy of every girl in school, which won her the first paying gig of her life.

I'd asked her once why she never pursued an acting carrier after the commercial.

"I love being admired, Bells, but not for money. It was fun to do once, but I'd much rather grace the world with my presence for free than ask to be paid for it. It's like charity. Alms giving. I'm helping the world. Doing good for the betterment of mankind." She'd always laugh and change the subject, not wanting to linger too long on that particular topic.

Snapping out of my reverie, I look back over at Rose, looking out of the shop window with a simple smile brightening her face. "Isn't life weird?" she says, "Imagine… if anything in our lives had gone even slightly different, we wouldn't be here today, getting ready to fly to Europe next week."

"Rose, I doubt our pasts would have been able to stop us. We're pretty damn stubborn."

After a few beers and a couple tacos, we pay our bill and make our way out the door, back into the unforgiving sun.

"Belle Isle?"

"Yeah, sounds good. Class is finally out for the semester. I bet all the cute boys are out in full force!"

Belle Isle is a long, narrow, almost wild island in the middle of the James River. To one side is a series of small rapids and large flat rocks that are popular among the local college students for sun bathing and just hanging around on while enjoying a cool beer in the middle of the city. To the other side of the island is a long abandoned pump house that locals rumor to be haunted.

I laugh with Rose and readjust my purse. After grabbing a few towels out of her trunk, we meander south for a couple blocks and cut through a few cobblestone alleys to the river. It's still early enough in the summer that the river water is cold and my enflamed skins yearns for it.

We cross the footbridge and make our way down the island's nature trail to our favorite spot: secluded, sheltered from the flow of the rapids, and wondrously shady. In all honesty, it's a gift from God. A sanctuary in the middle of this hot, sticky, overcrowded Southern city.

Not having swimsuits, Rose and I strip down to our bra and panties and ease into the frigid water. Immediately I feel better. After sighing in unison and relaxing in silence for a couple minutes, Rose finally lifts her head from the boulder it's been laying on and lifts her hand to shield the sun from her squinting eyes.

"So, you gonna try to hook up with an unsuspecting, cute European boy?"

I laugh indulgently at her and close my eyes, for once enjoying the heat, now that I have to amazing contrast of the fresh river water. "Rose, you know the answer to that question already, so why even ask?" I know I sound defensive, but damnit, she should know better.

"Just hopeful I guess…"

I frown a bit but I know she can't see my expression. I know she's just being a concerned friend, but I really just need time on that front. Not enough time has passed. I'm not ready.

I can hear her sigh quietly and reach into her bag for her sunglasses.

"Anyway, I don't know if I've said it enough yet, but thanks for helping me get this scholarship. We both know my grades weren't going to be good enough to study German abroad. You really saved my ass, Bells. I owe you."

"Pfft. Like I'd really go without you." I smile at her and mouth a silent _No problem, hun_. This seems to satisfy her and stave off another 'Thank You' til later. She's always been much too hard on herself. Sure, my grammar was better, be she was better at speaking. I took my time, thought things out. She was more of a take-the-bull-by-the-horns kind of girl. We'd always complemented each other nicely that way. If it hadn't been a written examination, I would have been sunk. I just got lucky this time.

This time next week, we'd be on our separate planes (she patched together an odd network of connecting flights in an effort to save money… I had frequent flier miles out the wazoo so my tickets were free anyway) on our way to Vienna. I, for one, was not going to be sad to go.

After a few more minutes of silence, Rose sat back up and reached into her bag again. "You up for a little music? A little something to get us in the mood?"

I eyed her and let out a giggle. "Get us in the mood for what exactly?"

Rose clicked her tongue at me and rolled her eyes in faux-agitation. "Austria, Bella. Stop being a perv."

"Hey! I didn't say anything pervy. YOUR mind went there. Not mine."

"Pfft. Whatever." She pulled her iPod and its little speakers out of her bag and placed them high up on the boulder so that there wouldn't be a chance of it falling in. After some quick shuffling, she must have found what she wanted because she pressed play and turned to me with an expression that mirrored the cat that ate the canary.

Seconds later, I finally heard the tell-tale beat that signaled the beginning of one of my favorite songs. I smiled at Rose and laughed as she dipped her shades low and started singing in a very convincing Peter Fox impression. The rest of our conversation become nothing more than loud, intentionally off-key sing-a-longs and fits of laughter. It was the perfect song for a day like today and I was so looking forward to the semester ahead of us. This was going to be the time of our lives and I wouldn't want to share it with anyone else.

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><p><strong>Song is "Fieber" by Peter Fox<strong>

Reviews, please! 3


	2. Chapter 2

**SM owns everything. Also, I'm out-of-practice on my German, so unless you're offering to be my proof-reader, please ignore my errors...**

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><p><strong>BPOV<strong>

So, here I am again, relaxing in another armchair and enjoying an incredibly overpriced hamburger at another airport A&W. My feet are kicked up protectively on my guitar case, which I couldn't bear to part with when it came time to check bags, and I'm rereading my overly worn copy of Pride and Prejudice for the millionth time. The only other book I have on me is a collection of Brother's Grimm tales, but I've already read from that today. New airport, new book.

I already survived one flight today, but that was the easy one. The flight from Richmond International to JFK in New York is child's play compared to crossing the Atlantic. Granted, I've made the trip more times than I'd like to count, but it never gets any easier (Nor does the fact that JFK is one of my top five least favorite places on Earth).

I had taken a cab to the airport with Rose this morning before the sun had even considered gracing us with its presence. With all of the bags we tried to stuff in there, it might have been wiser to call for a second cab, but we didn't want to waste the last few moments of each other's company merely for the sake of comfort.

I waited with her at her gate until she was able to board and watched in silence as her plane finally lifted into the sky. Once she was no more than a tiny, indistinguishable speck in the sky, I turned to find my gate and bunker down for two hours to watch a muted television in the most uncomfortable chair ever invented, dreading the prospect of flying again.

I don't dislike flying due to any fear or superstition. It's simply the result of overuse; like when you eat ramen everyday for a month because it's all you can afford on a college student's budget. After a while, just the smell of it puts you off.

I developed a distaste for flying from the people in airports. Always in a rush, knocking people over, not caring if they caused others to drop something or even fall. Your flight was so much more important than the faceless people around you.

You were so much more important.

On one particularly memorable flying experience, I was even gifted a black eye when a man flung open the door to the airport's designated smoking room right as I was passing by. He didn't even look phased or apologetic. I didn't even merit a backward glance of apathy.

How could travel be such a unifying catalyst for the disregard of common courtesy and human compassion?

Commercial flying sucks.

Plain and simple.

People who skin themselves in tracksuits, gym shorts, and stretch-pants for comfort, who thump along unselfconsciously down the center aisle, banging heads along the way, and drop-jam their fleshy frames into seats they're too large for. Ask, and they will spool out their very own litany of outrage: _Frigging middle seats. My plane is always late. The seatbelts are too short. The overhead's too small. There's no leg room. _ Every commuter flight is an airborne boatload of kvetching know-it-alls who feel that their $300, spent once a year for a two-leg hop to some regional airport where their in-laws who are tapping their toes in the cell phone lot, is the raison d'être for flight itself. And the worst part? This throbbing populace of angry, poorly dressed super-virus pack mules somehow finds a way to touch you the entire time. Hands graze, shoulders rub, hips knock, bellies nestle against backs. At every gate, in every line, they press closer. The worst part of flying, not unlike enlisting in the Army, is not the distance from home — it's the proximity to what you do not know. As if all of the unwanted touching didn't bother me enough before, it was an even more acute aversion now.

After a while though, I began to grow numb to it. I never rushed and shoved like the rest of them. Rather, I made sure there was ample time between my flights so that rushing was never an issue. I'd stake out the closest coffee shop to my gate and just stare into nothingness; never again did I interact with those around me.

That was until I was in Atlanta. Standing in the security line, in my stupid socks, my belt lost somewhere in the machine, I waited for the obvious first-time-flyer in front of me to realize that lose change in your pockets would set off the alarm. Beep after beep, he just didn't seem to understand the concept. Oops, forgot your belt too, didn't ya buddy? Ah! And there's the watch… I'm not normally so grouchy, but defiant ignorance irritated me to no end.

There was a girl behind me. She had made some joke when we were undressing — I can't remember it, exactly, but it was more conversation than I'd been looking for, and I'd just smiled, fakely, and gone back to being mad at the world. It was only after we were through to the other side and gathering our things that I glanced back at her and realized she was crying, not just a little bit. She was a girl in tears in the middle of this awful, antiseptic place. I'm pretty sure it wasn't because I didn't genuinely laugh at her joke. I'm pretty sure it was because she had just kissed goodbye someone she loved, maybe for the last time. Normally I would have just picked my keys and coins out of the tray, but that morning I reached out behind me and put a hand on her arm before I walked away.

It was the shortest of connections, but it was enough.

I waited for my flight that morning and never once wished gone the time. I sat there and remembered those years when I had been an optimist, honest and true, and when I'd been hopeful, when I'd trusted people I didn't even know existed, and when my innocence was still intact. And I remembered when airports for me were gateways, opportunities, the places from which the best days of my life were launched. There was a time when I loved airports in the same way other people love churches, coming together under glass and high ceilings so that they might be released. I remembered especially waiting for my dad at the airport in D.C. early one morning, back when he was still in the army. The sun only just breaking the horizon, I remember how excited I was when he finally emerged from the orange glow behind the sliding doors with his duffel slung over his shoulder. That's when I knew everything I needed to know, and I'd forgotten all about it in my pain and my rush.

Now, whenever I can, I go early for my flights and confuse my taxi drivers by asking them to drop me off at Arrivals. I pick up a drink and a magazine for the lulls, put on my headphones — Explosions in the Sky works well — and I watch people begin again. I watch them come off their long flights and I see their tired faces light up, their hearts explode, their knees buckle, their eyes close. Sometimes I want to ask them what they mean to each other, but most of the time it's not hard to tell. I'm not ashamed to admit I wobbled when I saw a soldier and a young woman (whom I assumed to be his girlfriend or possibly his new bride) hugging each other with joyful tears streaming down their faces like they were clinging to dear life, and when two daughters ran to their father and each grabbed a leg in Orlando, and when a son with a giant backpack and a summer-long beard fell into the arms of his tearful mother in Boston. Every time I see emotions so familiar in the faces of strangers, I'm rescued from today, from all of our modern sins and plagues, from the bullies running to catch their oh-so-important flights, again and again and again, brought back to those moments in my own life when I knew in my chest that everything would be okay, like the moment just before I hugged my father for the first time in over a year, and the moment just after I let go of that girl in Atlanta.

And now for this new adventure Rose and I were embarking on.

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><p>I find my seat rather quickly. I'm in one of the front few rows on the right-hand side of the plane in economy, next to the small window. I pull out one of the German newspapers that I had grabbed from the walkway and begin scanning for anything interesting.<p>

God, I love European hospitality. American companies would never even think to leave out complimentary magazines (and no, 'SkyMall' doesn't count) and papers for the overpaying customers that they were about to stuff in a big tin can like a bunch of sardines. At least German flights had the courtesy to make some sort of amends.

Halfway through the front page, I'm interrupted by an uncertain throat clearing and a large figure in my peripheral. I smile softly at him as he moves to shake my hand and introduce himself. In spite of myself, I have to admit he's cute. His slick, black hair is pulled back into a low ponytail and his crooked nose is really more of an asset than an imperfection. It adds character. He's tan and toned, the muscles of his arms stretching out his plain black T-shirt a bit. And _good Lord_, is he ever tall! For a moment I thought it was simply the characteristically low airplane ceiling that was playing with my eyes, but when he moves to sit down and is still a head taller than me, I fully begin to realize how tall he really is.

"Grüß Gott. Ich heiße Jakob. Wie heißen Sie?"

"Isabella."

He smiles broadly and tucks his carry-on under his seat before turning back to me and my feeble attempt to keep my eyes trained on my paper.

"Etwas interessant?" he asks with a nod to my paper.

"Nein…" I say dejectedly, looking up to smirk at him.

He smiles again and bends over to dig his iPod out of his bag.

_Tall, dark, handsome, and a great cmile – Rose would be eating this shit up. _

"Woher kommen Sie? Deinen Akzent ist verschiedenen..."

"Ich wohne in America. …Aber ich bin in Frankfurt geboren." I reply quickly as if I'm trying to make an excuse for myself.

"Oh really? Sorry, I just saw the newspaper and assumed…"

"No, it's completely fine. I'm just a student. I saw the paper and grabbed it… What about you? Your English is pretty good for a non-native."

"Vienna. I just finished up a year studying in Chicago, though."

"Oh wow. What a coincidence! I'm actually on my way to Vienna for study abroad as well."

We go on like that for a while, my newspaper completely forgotten; comparing stories, must-sees in Vienna and Europe in general, what I was studying, etc. He seemed impressed that this wasn't my first time abroad and that I was as familiar as he was with many cities across Europe. It doesn't even faze us when the pilot announces that we are twentieth in line for the runway and that take off will be over an hour behind schedule. It doesn't matter. I barely register take-off.

I tell him about the summer my family spent living in Rome, my childhood friend now living in Berlin, and that Rose is most-likely flying somewhere near Atlanta by now. He tells me about the café his family runs on the outskirts of Vienna, his roommates back in Chicago, and his two older sisters that have already graduated university and are married with children. He seems pleased that I'm so into music and can play both guitar and piano.

"So that's your guitar I saw up in the overhead?"

When I respond in the affirmative, he asks if I could sing at all before going off on a tangent about how there were so few girls these days that were actually self-confident enough to sing much less play in front of others. At the end of his little rant, he makes me promise to partake in the open mic nights at his favorite bar.

Jakob is easy to talk to. He doesn't monopolize the conversation and isn't uncomfortable with the intermittent lulls in conversation that are expected on a nine hour flight.

We share our two in-flight meals, volunteering to take what the other doesn't want. It feels like trading lunches back at the elementary school lunch table all over again. Giggling over the silliest of things and reveling in the benefits of sharing with a new friend. Carefree. Easy. Rewarding in its simplicity.

We land in Düsseldorf three hours late. As we approach the gate, the pilot updates us on the status of connecting flights.

_Shit – we're going to miss ours. I need to call Rose - _

Stewardesses filter through the cramped plane, handing out forms and pens for us all to sign concerning our present health. There had been some sort of virus scare a month back and health is still an issue. I opted for an English form instead of the German one I was initially offered. Apparently after nine hours of talking to Jakob and his thick accent, my own dormant accent had been dusted off and was searching for the light of day.

We fill out our forms, rescue our belongings from the crammed puzzle that the over-head had become during flight, and queue for the exit. Everyone groggily filters into the passport check and is met with the basic "Business or Pleasure" question that you always hear about. It takes my guard a good two minutes to find an empty page, but my passport is eventually stamped and I'm admitted to the 'Airport Düsseldorf International'.

Apparently in the time it took for all 200+ passengers to deplane, our luggage has been transferred to our connecting flight just in the knick of time and is already on its way to Austria… If only we had been so lucky. At least I had been cautious enough to not let my guitar out of my sight. I'd be a mess right now if I knew it was quickly flying farther and farther away from me.

So with the clothes on our backs and my guitar in Jakob's hand as our only possessions (he insisted that he be able to carry it – something about being raised right…), Jakob and I search out the information booth. I have almost no money on me at the moment, even less of which I had the foresight to exchange into Euros. The food vouchers AirBerlin gifts are a godsend, given the next flight to Vienna isn't for another ten hours.

_Great._

Ten hours in a city neither of us knew, me with very little money, and both of us are surviving on almost no sleep.

"You up for a little exploring?" Jakob says with a nudge to my ribcage and a stifled yawn.

"Always." I responded with a suppressed yawn of my own.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders (I'm not sure if this intended to be an effort to keep me on my feet or simply an act of comradery) and leads us out onto the street and down into the U-Bahn station. I try to slyly wriggle myself out from under his heavy arm without making it look too obvious. He seems to notice though and quickly removes his arm, avoiding my gaze. I don't mean to offend him, but I'm still not big on guys touching me. For a moment, I allow my mind to wander back down its much-weathered path of self-pity and depression.

_How long is this healing process supposed to take? I can't keep doing this to myself…_

The subway only manages to hold our interest for a few minutes before we start getting restless from having to sit in another cramped space and hop off at the next available stop. When we emerge on the street level and find ourselves among the towering skyscrapers of an apparent business district, we decide to follow the flow of foot traffic to look for a park of some sort. I yearn for the open space, to not feel like I'm trapped by my surroundings, if only for a couple hours.

After half a mile of walking, Jakob spots a clearing up ahead over the heads of the people in front of us. I blindly follow him, rationalizing that with his height, he can't steer us astray. We cross one last intersection and the sight of the city park before me is such a relieving prospect that I almost drop to my knees in thanks. My sleep deprived body aches for the warm, inviting grass and the shade of the willow trees.

"You wanna take turns catching up on sleep?"

I look at him as if he were the most brilliant man I'd ever met. "Oh my God, YES!" As tired as I am, Jakob looks far worse off, so I volunteer to watch over us first. As he sleeps (with his head on my precious guitar case, I might add), I watch the swans in the pond and the light foot traffic meandering down the park's narrow paths. Some are young families taking their children to feed the ducks, others are businessmen taking a break from the hustle and bustle of the city to sit on a quiet, shady bench and catch up on their work. All are enjoying the beautiful day that I honestly just want to sleep through.

The sun and light breeze feel warm and an inviting on my skin, a welcome change from the humid weather of Richmond. All around me is quiet laughter and the steady, muted footsteps of joggers passing by.

I don't remember falling asleep.

"Isabella! Wake up! What time is it!"

I awake with a start and look around confused, forgetting myself and not knowing where I am.

"Our flight leaves in an hour! We need to go! Mach schnell!"

I bolt upright and spring to my feet, the instant adrenaline of my current situation finally breaching the dams of my dazed mind. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and sure enough, eight hours have already flown by. The sun is setting and the park is almost vacant. Jakob grabs my guitar case and slings his carry-on over his shoulder quicker than I would have thought possible for someone of his size. He makes to extend his hand for me to take, but immediately withdraws it when he catches the expression on my face – apparently it's obvious to him that I don't want to be touched.

We spend the next ten minutes running full out to the nearest U-Bahn station. The speed intensifies my clumsiness, almost sending me tumbling down the escalator. Jakob manages to snag me by the backpack and right me before I do too much damage to myself, but I don't even have the ability to get out a 'thank you' before he's off again, with me in hot pursuit. Finally, when we're on the train and moving down the tube to the airport, I'm able to pull a much needed breath. My lungs are on fire and a stitch is tearing into my side. I'm sure I look like I'm dying. It feels that way anyway.

Across from me, Jakob's face is solemn, determined… maybe even a little pissed. I try to tell him that none of this is his fault, but he waves me off. He's convinced that he hasn't taken 'good care of me' and that I'm 'his responsibility'. I really don't want to seem ungrateful, but I can't hold back the urge to roll my eyes. I was the one that fucked up on guard duty, not him. He won't listen.

We don't really have a need for the airport meal vouchers anymore, so we pass them off quite unceremoniously to the first lost-looking couple we see upon entering the terminal. Thankfully, German airport security is nowhere near as stringent as America's and we're through to our gate quickly, arriving just in time to board the plane.

Our seats unfortunately aren't together this time, but Jakob spots an empty seat in front of mine and commits to occupying it until its rightful owner comes to claim it.

"Hey, once we get there, do you know where you're going?"

I bite my lip in hesitation, tasting the perspiration that's gathered there from our run. _Crap._ I'd totally forgotten that our delay had thrown off the meet-up plans that Rose and I had agreed upon. I pull out my phone and get ready to call her before the stewardess has the chance to come around and ask us to turn off our devices, but the message on my screen stops me. I don't have service.

I quickly ask to borrow Jakob's phone and send Rose a text. Hopefully she'll reply by the time we land.

**Rose, flight was late. Boarding Dusseldorf plane now. Call you when I land. ~B.**

With that load of my chest, I finally lean back in my chair and try to relax, trying not to be too upset with how out-of-shape I've apparently become.

"My dad's picking me up if you need a ride. It's better than the U-Bahn or a taxi."

My eyes shoot open and gaze straight into Jakob's. The smile on my face is so large it almost hurts. "Really, Jakob? That would be amazing! Are you sure your dad wouldn't mind?"

"Of course not. Especially when he sees how cute you are." He winks at me and quickly gets up to retreat to his real seat before I can respond. I can feel my face heat up at his words, but I try not to let it get to me. He was sweet and everything; attractive, attentive, fun… but there was no spark. As I watch him walk down the aisle, a small part of me is pissed. Why can't I stop robbing myself like this? Jakob is a perfectly wonderful human being. Why can't I just let my damn walls down?

The flight takes off, soars, and finally lands in the Vienna. Even though his seat is much farther toward the front of the plane than mine, Jakob remains seated until my row is finally allowed to disembark, filing into line behind me. We're both silent as he leads me through the Vienna airport, a route I'm sure he's very familiar with by now. We stop in the Lost Luggage office when we don't find our things on the conveyor belt (Not that I was expecting to find them there, but Jakob wouldn't listen). The tiny office is completely stacked floor to ceiling with the entirety of our late plane's luggage and it takes almost twenty minutes to locate all of our bags.

With Jakob in tow, I spot a large group of people heading toward what looks like an exit and I follow, too tired to really take in what's going on around me.

I almost make it to the sliding doors before I notice Jakob is no longer behind me – and neither is my guitar case.

I whirl around quickly in a blind panic to try to spot the tall boy with the long black hair and start hyperventilating when I don't see him.

_Crap. Crap. Crap!_

_How could I let someone I barely know hold my baby? Oh shit! What am I going to do! That was dad's guitar! I can't replace it! I don't have any money! I don't know where the apartment is! What did he say the name of his parents' café was? Maybe I can track him down that way! Shit! Why can't I remember it?_

_SHIT!_

Right before I get so distressed that I can't see through my unshed, tear-filled eyes, I hear his voice break out over the buzzing of the people around me.

"Isabella! Wo bist du?"

I smack my chest with one hand and bend over, supporting myself on my knee with the other hand. A cold chill rolls over my skin and I feel almost dizzy. _I feel like such an ass. How could I even think that of him? What's wrong with me?_

"Oh! There she is... – Sie ist hier, Vati!"

I'm still bent over, trying to get control of my heart rate, but I see his large sneakers come to a halt in front of me.

"Hey - damn, you okay Isabella?" By the shadows I see on the floor, I can tell he tried to reach his hand out to me again, but he caught himself. Already he knows me so well. That, or I'm really fucking transparent.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just got a little overexcited I guess. Long day…" I slowly straighten back up and rub by eyes on the back of my arm before meeting his worried gaze. I try to offer him a small smile, but I'm still trying to get over my little panic attack so the attempt is feeble. Before we go anywhere else, I motion for my guitar. There's no way in hell my frail little heart can handle that again…

"I'm fine Jakob, really. I promise. I just freaked myself out is all."

He looks like he wants to say something, but before he can get the words out, he's cut off by a gruff voice from behind him.

"Jakob, is this the American?"

"Uh, ja Vati. Dad, this is Isabella, Isabella, this is my dad, Billy."

From behind Jakob rolls his father in a rather archaic looking wheelchair. Billy Schwarz is heavyset with a severely wrinkled face and russet skin. Despite his old age, his hair is as long and as black as his son's and settled between his deep crow's feet are his son's dark, probing eyes. He appraises me for a moment, his gaze lingering on my own eyes. A slow, crinkled smile forms on his face as he opens his arms for a hug. I don't know this man from Adam, but I feel like I know him already. The hug is easy, comforting, and just what I need. It was definitely a father's hug. I really missed those.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jakob watching me hugging his father without flinching away and I feel my face going red yet again. Oops. How am I going to explain why I was seemingly only avoiding _HIS_ friendly touches?

"It's nice to meet you Herr Schwarz. I really appreciate you and Jakob helping me find my way home. I'd be completely lost otherwise." I pull myself out of the embrace and laugh nervously. Hopefully I hadn't just put a foot in my mouth. Had Jakob even asked his father yet?

"Please, Isabella, call me Billy." There's Jake's smile again.

"Please, Billy, call me Bella." We share a little laugh and my heart immediately pains for my dad.

I catch Jakob's eyes still staring at his father's arms right before they flick back to my own. He looks a little guilty from being caught and I immediately feel even worse.

_Sigh._ Soldier on.

"So, I'm not completely sure where I'm going, but I have the address and neighborhood written down…" I pull a folded bit of scrap paper out of my shirt's breast pocket, hand it to Jakob and watch as he opens it. His brows furrow as he tries to decipher my chicken scratch. After a little consultation with his father, Jakob finally figures out the general area I'm looking for and readjusts the bag on his shoulder. With a head nod and a 'Tally Ho!' from his father, our trio makes its way out to the parking lot.

* * *

><p>"Ready to see my city?" Jakob asks with a wink as we pass some large radio towers on the highway. Despite the sleep deprivation, I'm finally wide awake, trying to soak in everything around me (even if it <em>is<em> just the highway) and I reply to Jakob's inquiry with a huge smile.

His dad asks a few questions about where I'm from, what brought me to Vienna… the expected inquiries a father might have after not seeing his son in a year and being surprised with a strange girl in said son's company. He is so kind, though. I can tell immediately where Jakob inherited all of his smiles.

They take me on a quick drive-by tour of the city, pointing out places I had to visit after I'd caught some sleep. Jakob makes sure to pick out his favorite bar, a karaoke & piano bar that he and his friends frequent.

"You really need to go Bells! With your love of music and how cute you are? You'll be a hit!"

"Maybe Jakob. We'll see. I have to coordinate things with Rose first. Has she texted back yet?"

He shakes his head and turns back to driving.

_What the hell, Rose?_

Jakob turns off a main street and into a neighborhood of tall apartments and narrow roads. It doesn't look like it would be the safest of places, but it's right near a major subway station and a major road. Besides, the roads look deserted.

"Thanks again for the ride, Jake. I really appreciate it. You have no idea…"

"Don't mention it! And hey, can I get your email or facebook or something? My dad's going to be throwing me a 'Welcome Home' party on Friday and I'd love it if you could come. Rosalie too, of course. I can't wait to meet her."

I scribble my email on an old receipt I find lying on the floor of his car and stick it in Jakob's cup holder. "I'd love to, Jake."

We pull up in front of a large 4-story, white building with large windows that takes up the whole block. Jakob unlocks his door, leaving the truck to idle, so that he can walk me to my door.

"You gonna be able to get in okay?" he asks, lifting my bags out of his car with what looks like absolutely no effort at all.

"Yeah, I should be fine. Even if Rose isn't there, we're supposed to have a third roommate. Angela, I think?"

He nods though he doesn't look completely convinced before he moves to hug me and freezes, dropping his arms immediately. _Okay, now I REALLY feel bad._ Before he can say anything or turn to leave, I've thrown my arms around his waist. Slowly, hesitantly, I feel him lower his arms around me and I think I feel his cheek on the top of my head.

_Okay, you tried, Bella. Don't push too far._

I immediately let go, as if shocked. If this startles or bothers Jakob, he doesn't show it.

"Don't forget, Bella – Friday!"

"Ich weiss!"

"Okay, okay. Tschüß!" He laughs and turns to walk back to his father, waiting in the truck, his spirits visibly lifted already.

I grab my bags and guitar off the sidewalk and shuffle up to the door. Finding our room number, I smash the button and wait for a response. I tighten my grip on my bags and scan the area around me once more. The area isn't exactly high-end….

In looking for a place, Rose and I had settled on the Red Light District to save money. Thankfully, it was a much nicer one than I was used to in Rome. That was a nightmare.

Vienna's Red Light District just so happened to be across the street from the Prater, an old amusement park near the middle of the city that was complete with an enormous Ferris wheel. The Riesenrad, as it was known, was built in the late 1890s and had been severely damaged in World War II. I'd been so excited to see it once I found out how close we'd be. Maybe Rose would be up for it tomorrow…

"Hallo?"

I was startled for a second. That wasn't Rose's voice.

"Um, hallo? Ich heiße Isabella. Ich suche Rosalie?"

I was **not** prepared for the immediate ear-splitting squeal on the other end of the telecom.

"OH BELLA! I'll be right down to let you in!"

_How did Mystery Girl know to call me Bella? _

…Oh, this must be our roommate, Angela. Rose had probably mentioned me already.

After making sure the coast was clear, I turn back towards the door. Not a second later, the door swings open to reveal a bouncing pixie with short, spiky black hair and startlingly light, golden eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright... so it's translation time, I suppose...<strong>

"Grüß Gott. Ich heiße Jakob. Wie heißen Sie?" (Greetings. I'm Jakob. What's your name?)

"Etwas interessant?" (Anything interesting?)

"Woher kommen Sie? Deinen Akzent ist verschiedenen..." (Where are you from? Your accent is different...)

"Ich wohne in America. …Aber ich bin in Frankfurt geboren." (I live in America. But I was born in Frankfurt.)

"Mach schnell!" (Hurry up!)

"Isabella! Wo bist du?" (Isabella! Where are you?)

"Sie ist hier, Vati!" (She's here, dad!)

"Ich weiss!" (I know!)

"Tschüß!" (Bye!)

**Okay, hopefully that was all of it. Sorry in advance if I missed anything.**

**Reviews please! Or I'll get all self-loathing and crap cause this is my first story and no one's reviewing it... **


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